


The Black Shirt

by MiniatureGlitterSoul, saisailove



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It gets dark at the end but nothing explicit, It starts out dark but it ends happily, Platonic Relationships, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6489436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniatureGlitterSoul/pseuds/MiniatureGlitterSoul, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisailove/pseuds/saisailove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Ford saw the shirt, he hadn’t realized what he had grabbed.</p><p>He was in a hurry to pack his things for college, to finally start living his life, his dreams. Sure, Backupsmore wasn’t the best college, but it was still far from (their) home, far from his (their) father and his (their) room and all the reminders of…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stanford

**Author's Note:**

> This started as me wondering where Ford got that t-shirt that he wore during The Time Traveler's Pig, haha. Then it sorta gained a life of it's own. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford accidentally packs one of Stanley's shirts.

The first time Ford saw the shirt, he hadn’t realized what he had grabbed.

He was in a hurry to pack his things for college, to finally start living his life, his dreams. Sure, Backupsmore wasn’t the best college, but it was still far from ( _their_ ) home, far from his ( _their_ ) father and his ( _their_ ) room and all the reminders of…

(Most of Stan’s things had been left behind after… the incident. His clothes, his toys, his favorite movies. It was hard to breathe at times in their shared room, with so many reminders of his brother ( _betrayer_ ). Especially when Ford, without fail, said “Night, Stanely,” every day before bed, and yet, there is no Stan to reply back to him, no comforting snoring on the bottom bunk anymore; or when he’d absently ask Stan to bring him something while studying and remember that he wasn’t there anymore, just reminders, painful reminders, everywhere, surrounding him, _suffocating_ him–)

Ford absently grabbed the shirt and roughly stuffed it into his suitcase. He hurriedly zipped it up. There was no time for dwelling on the past. It was time to get his life back on track.

* * *

 

The second time Ford saw the shirt, he remembered.

He had been unpacking his clothes at Backupsmore and putting them in some of the school’s dressers. He’d been in the middle of a conversation with his new roommate, Fiddleford H. McGucket, when he grabbed the shirt. Once he saw it, however, the words died on his tongue and his face turned solemn.

He held it. Ran his thumb over the not-so-rough, not-so-soft black material. He remembered when Stan first bought it and bragged about how cool he looked for _weeks_. It was amusing as it was frustrating. Ford felt the sides of his mouth turn up in a slight nostalgic smile. However…

His expression became thunderous and his grip on the fabric tightened. He shoved it into one of the drawers, slamming it shut, and pretending not to notice the startled look Fiddleford gave him. No time to dwell on the past, became his silent mantra. He was in college, and it was time to look towards the future.

* * *

 

The third time Ford saw the shirt, he was out of laundry.

He had gotten so caught up in his research that he’d forgotten to do the laundry. Everything he owned was covered in dirt, sweat, coffee, and various other stains of questionable origin. The only clean clothes he had left were the shirt and a pair of brown pants.

So Ford, reluctantly, put on the black t-shirt. It hadn’t been touched in years, which is why it was the only shirt in the house to escape being so dirty. It was ironic, really.

He started the wash and headed back into the kitchen to brew some coffee. He passed by a mirror and stopped. Slowly, he turned his head to look at his reflection.

He looked just like Stanley.

The shirt made him look more muscular, which, considering he nearly failed Physical Education in high school, was saying something. His shoulders looked broader. Sure, the resemblance between him and Stanley was obvious–they were twins, after all–but that similarity wasn’t nearly as blatant when they got older and developed their own individual styles. But this shirt…

It was painful.

He _did_ miss Stanley. He still loved him. It’s hard to hate someone who was there with you all your life. Stanley had been his only friend for 17 years, as well as his protector. But the bitter taste of betrayal was still fresh, even half a decade later. He had so many conflicting feelings towards Stan, both good and bad, and it was hard to think of one without the other cropping up. It was just easier to ignore them, pretend they didn’t exist. To continue on with his life and work on his research.

And yet…

Ford stood there, staring at the mirror for a long time. At some point, he had started clutching the shirt. He hadn’t noticed before, but the shirt, since it laid untouched for so long, still smelled like Stan.

Even with all his rage and anger, the scent comforted him. He felt himself relax, and his fingers slack. He tilted his head forward until his forehead rested against the mirror, and sighed.

He stayed like that for a long while, sadly staring at his own reflection and thinking about the past. Of beaches, boats, and brothers.

The sound of voices outside startled him out of his reverie. He heard the crunch of footsteps as he made his way to the front door and looked outside.

No one was there.

Just footsteps in the snow, that abruptly began and ended a few feet apart.

Ford would love to investigate this new anomaly ( _one that was right in front of his house_ no less!), but he was without proper winter clothes. It was all in the wash. He closed the door and made his way to the kitchen to make the coffee he meant to brew before he’d gotten distracted.

He made it extra black that day. It seemed fitting.

* * *

 

Despite it all, he never got rid of the shirt. It was the only thing left of Stanley’s that he had, and it seemed… wrong, somehow, to get rid of it. Something in Ford just wouldn’t allow him to throw the shirt out.

(He ignored the whispers in his head that said Fillbrick had more than likely thrown the rest out while he was gone. He clenched his fists.)

Most of the time, it sat out of sight in one of his rarely-touched drawers. He wore it occasionally, whenever he ran out of his other clothes and forgot to do the laundry. Even after several washes, it still smelled like Stanley. It was both a comfort and a pain to Ford.

When Fiddleford joined him in his research, the shirt went virtually untouched for the months he had stayed. Fiddleford was always better at remembering daily things, like eating and laundry. That all changed when he… left.

( _When gravity falls and earth becomes sky when gravity falls and earth becomes sky when gravity falls and earth becomes sky–_ )

The months afterward were hell. He was so paranoid–Bill could be watching him _anywhere_ , could be taking control of his body at any time, he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t _eat_ , couldn’t relax and sit down and do mundane things like _wash his clothes_.

It was only inevitable that Ford, during this emotionally and mentally trying time, ran out of clothes to wear. (Only after wearing the same outfits for _days_ on end, too scared to shower or show such vulnerability that nakedness implied.) His house was a mess, just like his mind. He was going crazy, he knew. It was just a matter of time.

Thankfully, some of the paranoia went away after he put that metal plate in his head ( _keep awake keep awake keep awake work through the pain work through the pain it’ll be worth it in the end_ ). But not by much. He was alone, too scared to leave his house–which he’d boarded up, to keep… unwanted visitors away.

Ford threw whatever clothes he found in the wash. Most where scattered around the house in disarray, under notes and over the couch and in the sink ( _when did that happen?_ ). While digging through some drawers, he grabbed a black material and paused.

He found the shirt. It was, perhaps, the only clean thing left in the whole house. He clutched it like a lifeline.

Ford sent a postcard to Stanley only days before. Stanley was his last hope. Fiddleford was gone, Bill– _Bill_ caused all this trouble, wants to cause _more_ , and Ford–Ford could barely function. He was in a state of constant paranoia, sometimes even attacking hallucinations that were caused by his own lack of sleep. Sometimes not knowing _where_ he was, or even _who_ he was, just that he had to keep going, and fighting, and _surviving_ –

It was _terrifying_.

Stan… Stan was the last hope Ford had. Never mind all the _pain_ and _hurt_ and _everything_ between them, it didn’t matter now ( _so he told himself_ ), all that mattered was getting the Journals away, separating them so no one else could find them, so Bill could be _stopped_ , so Ford could _finally_ rest knowing, that despite the constant nightmares, that Bill couldn’t enter this world. That the world wouldn’t end due to his own ignorance and mistakes.

Ford sat on his knees and buried his face in the black fabric, sobbing tears of frustration. He hoped Stanley would come soon. He couldn’t take much more of this. He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_ ….

He fell asleep crying, clutching the shirt to his chest, breathing in the scent. After a while, his sobs softened, and finally stopped.

It was the first dreamless sleep he’d had in months.


	2. Stanley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley Pines finds a black t-shirt in his brother's closet--and every time he sees it, his feelings about it shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by MiniatureGlitterSoul!! These are her notes:
> 
> This is a companion fic to "The Black Shirt" by saisailove. So if you haven't read that, you should go read it first--otherwise you will likely be confused. I suppose you could read this on its own, but I think it means more if you read her piece first.

The first time Stan saw the shirt, he didn’t recognize it.

It was just a black t-shirt–no adornments, no logos–just another shirt in a crumpled up pile of shirts at the bottom of Ford’s closet. But it was different from the others–they were all buttons and collars, shirts to be worn with ties or under sweaters. That was his brother’s style.

Nerd.

But a black t-shirt…?

Cool.

Stan picked it up. He ran his thumb over the fabric and remembered, suddenly, how proud he had been of it. It was just a dumb black t-shirt, but he remembered the way it had hugged his shoulders and made him look so tough and how he had bragged about it for weeks.

He smiled.

“It’s just a t-shirt, Stanley,” Ford had said.

So they why was it here?

Stan’s smile faded. He dropped the shirt back into the pile of dirty clothes. He’d have to do laundry eventually, but not now. He had work to do.

* * *

 The second time Stan saw the shirt, it was clean.

He stopped in the act of pulling clothes out of the dryer and held the shirt in his hands. He was wearing nothing but a dingy tank top and his boxers–laundry was long overdue, but he’d kept putting it off because he had to keep going, he had to keep working he couldn’t stop he had to save him–

He pulled off his tank top and pulled on the black t-shirt. It was too tight now. He’d let himself go in the last ten years, and now the shirt squeezed his beer belly. He rolled his shoulders and looked down at his arms, half-hoping that he’d suddenly look muscular instead of pathetic. He flexed his muscles, just a little, and practically heard Ford’s voice–

“It’s just a t-shirt, Stanley.”

“Can it, Poindexter! You know I look great.”

Ford had rolled his eyes.

Stan finished pulling the laundry out of the dryer, haphazardly threw Ford’s shirts onto hangars (in case I need to look presentable later?), then went back downstairs. He sat down at Ford’s desk and looked through the journal again, trying to find something–anything–that would help him turn this stupid machine back on. But there was nothing about any of this that made sense–it was all more science fiction than any science fact Stan could remember from high school (not that he had payed much attention–stupid, idiot, moron) and he didn’t understand half of the words he was reading. Not to mention the absolute gibberish his brother had decided to write in. It was all symbols and patterns, none of which made any sense to Stan.

Who were you hiding from?

Stan ran his hands through his hair. His stomach growled. He was out of food now. He closed his eyes and took in a slow, deep breath.

He smelled Ford.

His heart thumped wildly for a moment before he realized–

I’m wearing his–no, my shirt, washed with his soap.

He sighed. His hands were shaking.

* * *

 The third time Stan saw the shirt, he was no longer Stan.

He had been in Gravity Falls for a few months now, and Ford’s old house was slowly turning into a tourist trap. The Murder Hut wasn’t getting much business yet, but it was enough to put food on the table. Not enough to buy new clothes or furniture or parts for that stupid machine–but enough to survive. Which was more than he’d had in ten years. He also had a bed to sleep in, with blankets and pillows but without the threat of cockroaches or Rico’s goons breaking down his door.

But at the cost of…himself.

At the cost of putting on Ford’s clothes every morning and using Ford’s name every day and looking in the mirror and seeing Ford reflected there every time and every time missing him and failing him and losing him–

He had food and clothes and a roof over his head, but he had lost them both.

Stan held the black t-shirt in his hands. He didn’t realize he was crying until his tear hit the worn fabric. He pressed the shirt against his chest, clutching it like a lifeline–and it was a lifeline. It was the only thread he had of his former life. It was the only part of him in this entire house. It was the only thing in all of Gravity Falls that reminded him of the time when he had been happy.

When he and Ford had been themselves and happy and a team.

He sat on Ford’s bedroom floor and cried. It wasn’t the first time he’d cried under this roof–and he knew it wouldn’t be the last–but it was by far the hardest he’d ever cried. He sobbed harder now than he had even after he’d gotten kicked out of his childhood home. His shoulders shook and his breaths went out in loud, choking noises and came in as heavy gasps.

He fell asleep there, crumpled on the floor with the shirt hugged tight to his chest, his cheeks wet, his breathing now slowed but still shuddering.

The shirt smelled like Ford.

* * *

 Stan wore the shirt whenever he needed to be reminded of himself.

The words, “I’m Stanford Pines,” rolled so easily off his tongue now that he sometimes forgot he was Stanley with only five fingers and a smooth chin. He knew that if anyone here had met the real Stanford he would never be able to pull this off–he and Ford were too different. They always had been. Stan knew that Ford would never staple a stuffed monkey to a dead fish’s tail and pass it off as a “mermonkey.” Ford wanted real monsters–the things he wrote about in his journal. But none of those would attract customers–they were either too weird or too scary, so Stan made do with what he had on hand–what he knew would bring the money in.

Stan knew that Ford wouldn’t lie and cheat. It was against Ford’s character. But nobody here knew that. Nobody here seemed to have ever met Ford. So they believed the lie.

“Good morning, Stanford!”

“How’s business, Stanford?”

“Stanford Pines, we’re here to ask you some questions about a missing pug…”

The lie was so good, sometimes Stan believed it. That’s when he would grab the black t-shirt from the back of the closet. That’s when he would look at himself in the mirror and say,

“Good morning, Stanley! How’s business, Stanley? Got that portal working yet, Stanley?”

He would retreat into the black t-shirt as he retreated to the basement, pouring over books about physics and complex math that he hadn’t even realized existed before he started working on this dumb machine. He would fiddle with the settings, replace wires, and pray and hope that something would work please work this time please work this time please work please work please work–

Nothing ever worked. No matter how much knowledge he packed inside his head, no matter how many times he slammed his fists against the buttons, nothing worked.

Stupid idiot moron stupid idiot moron you failed you failed you failed.

In his failure he would rub his chest–rubbing away the pain there, rubbing away the fabric of the old black t-shirt… There were holes in it now. He had worn it and washed it so many times that the shirt was fading away.

Stan was fading away.

Ford was fading away.

He clutched at his chest–he clutched at the black t-shirt.

Good morning, Stanley.

He inhaled slowly–the black t-shirt still smelled like Ford.

Good morning, Stanford.


	3. Stanford and Stanley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford finds the shirt again, Stan confronts him about it, and in the end, both are content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in response to MiniatureGlitterSoul's addition to my original story!! I really wanted to give this fic a happy ending for both Stan and Ford.

The day Ford found the shirt again was the day he’d walked out of a portal and back into a world he never expected to see again.

He found it at the back of Stanley’s ( _his?_ ) closet, looking for new clothes to wear, aside from the weathered ones he had on coming out of the portal. The shirt was practically in tatters. The fabric was threadbare, and covered with holes, and it was truly a miracle that it was still in one piece at all. It barely resembled the cool shirt Stanley had bragged about when he first bought it. Ford knew Stan had to have worn it often while he had been… staying here.

Ford didn’t know how to react to that. He didn’t know how to react to Stan finding this one piece of him in Ford’s house that Ford had kept, for reasons he refused to admit.

He didn’t know how to react to the fact that Stan had worn it so much. None of the other shirts in Stan’s ( _his?_ ) closet were this old and torn. Stan had kept wearing this shirt, and wearing it, and _wearing_ it, for the last 30 years. A part of Ford was sad to see it so badly worn. It was, at one point in time, his lifeline to the past and to the future. Something to keep him sane. And now it barely existed.

He picked it up and held it. He took a deep breath and sighed. It still smelled like Stan.

(In the end, Ford chose a red sweater and a pair of black pants from Stan’s ( _his?_ ) closet. He lay the shirt back where he found it, pretending as if he had no connection to the dark fabric–as if it hadn’t, once upon a time, kept him loosely tethered to sanity, like an oasis in a desert, or an island in the middle of a raging sea of paranoia and self-doubt.)

* * *

 

The second time he saw the shirt after he returned, Stanley had confronted him about it. Or _tried_ to, at least.

Stan stood in the doorway to the living room and held it in his hands, eyes switching between staring at the shirt and looking off to the side awkwardly. Ford tried not to notice, as he wrote down some notes in his journal and ignored his brother.

Finally, Stan cleared his throat and broke the tense silence in the room. “So, hey… um. Stanford. I was wondering… why’d you have this?” He held out the tattered shirt. “I know it’s not one of yours.”

Ford still didn’t really know himself.

(That was a lie. He knew _exactly_ why he kept that shirt.

He irritably pushed those thoughts away.)

“I accidentally packed it while I was going to college.” Ford replied in an even tone, one that betrayed none of his conflicting emotions. “It seemed like a waste to throw a perfectly good shirt out, even if it wasn’t mine.” And that was the truth. Mostly. There was more to it than that, far, _far_ more, but he didn’t need to tell Stan that. He didn’t _want_ Stan to know. The thought made him uneasy for reasons he couldn’t explain.

He watched as Stan’s shoulders slumped. “Oh I.. see.” He replied in a defeated sort of voice. A voice that Stan never spoke in, a voice that reminded him of that night, a night when trust had been broken and mistakes had been made and fathers kicked sons out and–

_“Stanford? Don’t leave me hangin’. High six?”_

Ford sat quietly as Stan turned and left the room, head hung low.

He hated seeing Stan vulnerable. It just didn’t fit. Stan was always the _strong_ one, the protector.

 _Stan nearly caused the apocalypse_ , he stubbornly reminded himself. The rift was created and the would could still end in weirdness.

 _He did it to save you_ , a soft, treacherous voice in his head responded.

Ford sat at the table for a long time, staring blankly at his Journal as his thoughts warred against themselves.

* * *

 

The third time the shirt was brought up was after the apocalypse had come and gone, and Stan was an empty shell of a man who sacrificed himself to save the world.

The scrapbook worked. Stan could remember the kids and Soos and Wendy–he could remember almost all the time he spent in Gravity Falls. It was miraculous that so much of Stan’s memory had come back in only a few days after all of it had been erased.

Stan still couldn’t remember Ford, however.

The night when the kids left, Ford pulled the worn, battered, ripped shirt out of Stan’s closet and held it like an offering to his confused brother. Stan picked it up out of his hands, but said nothing.

“Do you remember this?” Ford asked, a desperate tone making it’s way into his voice. That shirt was his last hope.

Stan stared at the fabric in his hands for a long time. For a while, it seemed as if it had done nothing to trigger Stan’s memories, and Ford sighed. He was ready to take the shirt back and head off to the old break room to sulk, when Stan opened his mouth.

“Stanley.”

“What?” Ford asked, off balance.

“My name is… Stanley.” Stan said again, in a slow voice. “And you’re Stanford.”

Ford stood there, not quite understanding what Stan meant by these words. Stan already knew his full name–it was one of the first things he relearned, as well as Ford’s full name. But clearly the words had some sort of impact on Stan as he spoke them. He kept repeating their names, over and over, “ _I’m Stanley, you’re Stanford, I’m Stanley, you’re Stanford–_ ”

Stan’s eyes began to glaze over, and Ford was ready to snap Stan out of the trance he seemed to be in, fearful of his brother’s mental state. Until finally, Stan’s head snapped up and his eyes were full of awareness and clarity.

“ _Stanford!_ ”

It was then that Ford knew that Stanley remembered him. Whatever connection Stan had to that shirt–whatever he did for those 30 years and why kept it for so long and he wore it so often that there were countless holes in it–it triggered Stan’s memories of Ford.

Ford stood in mute disbelief as Stan threw his arms around him. Ford shakily returned the hug, still not-quite believing, before reality struck him like lightning and he clutched Stan like his life depended on it. He could hear his brother laugh-sobbing into his shoulder, but he didn’t care, he had his brother back, that’s all that mattered, Stan was _back_ and he _remembered_ Ford and he was _hugging_ him–

Ford had never been so happy in his life.

* * *

 

Stan brought up the shirt again while they were sailing on calm waters aboard the _Stan O’ War II_. Both had been relaxing, enjoying the light breeze and the rarity of warm weather up in the arctic. The question came out of nowhere, it seemed.

“Hey Ford, why’d you keep that shirt for all those years?” There was no need to clarify which shirt. there was only one he could be talking about.

Ford hummed to himself as he leaned against the walls of the small ship.

“Same reason I kept that photograph.” He finally answered. “I missed you, Stanley.”

Stan said nothing.

Ford continued, sure that Stan was listening. “I really _did_ pack it by accident, but when I realized I had it, well… I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.” He stared off into the horizon and beyond the gentle waves. “It was the only thing I had of you. And I knew that after I went to college, Dad probably…” He trailed off. Their father was still a sore subject.

Stan snorted. “Probably threw all my stuff into the nearest dump.” His voice was full of resentment and tired acceptance.

Ford nodded. “Right.” He took a breath. “Even after everything that happened… I couldn’t throw away that last piece of you, Stanley. It was all I had left.”

Ford felt sort of silly for finally voicing these sentimental thoughts; thoughts he’d kept locked away and had pretended didn’t exist. Thoughts he forced down for 40 some-odd years and tried valiantly to ignore. But after everything that’s happened, he couldn’t keep them hidden, not anymore. Not when Stan clearly _needed_ to hear what he had to say.

He heard Stanley quietly sniff.

He turned to face his brother. “Stan?”

Stan was not-so subtlety trying to wipe away tears that were building up in his eyes. “It–It’s nothin’!” He hurriedly blubbered. “I just–I got some salt water in my eye, is all!”

Ford smiled lightly, and hugged his brother, who held him tightly back.

They stood like that for a long time, Stan crying into his shoulder and gripping Ford like a lifeline, while Ford gently patted his back. Ford decided not to ruin the moment by telling Stanley that the waves were too gentle to cause water spray. He grinned into his sobbing brother’s shoulder.

The shirt itself lay within the ship, inside their tiny shared bedroom. It was more holes then cloth now, and it had no functional purpose anymore. But they still kept it, safely tucked into one of their drawers. Reminding them of their past, present, and futures that lay waiting for them both beyond the calm horizons.


End file.
